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ST. MAWR
ican Red Cross in France, nursing. She loved men – real men.
But, on close contact, it was diffi cult to defi ne what she meant
by ‘real’ men. She never met any.
Out of the débacle of the war she had emerged with an odd
piece of débris, in the shape of Geronimo Trujillo. He was an
American, son of a Mexican father and a Navajo Indian mother, from Arizona. When you knew him well, you recognised
the real half-breed, though at a glance he might pass as a sunburnt citizen of any nation, particularly of France. He looked
like a certain sort of Frenchman, with his curiously-set dark
eyes, his straight black hair, his thin black moustache, his rather long cheeks, and his almost slouching, diffi dent, sardonic
bearing. Only when you knew him, and looked right into his
eyes, you saw that unforgettable glint of the Indian.
He had been badly shell-shocked, and was for a time
a wreck. Mrs. Witt, having nursed him into convalescence,
asked him where he was going next. He didn’t know. His father and mother were dead, and he had nothing to take him
back to Phoenix, Arizona. Having had an education in one of
the Indian high schools, the unhappy fellow had now no place
in life at all. Another of the many misfi ts.
There was something of the Paris Apache in his appearance but he was all the time withheld, and nervously shut inside himself. Mrs. Witt was intrigued by him.
“Very well, Phoenix,” she said, refusing to adopt his Spanish name, “I’ll see what I can do.”
What she did was to get him a place on a sort of manor
farm, with some acquaintances of hers. He was very good with
11
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
horses, and had a curious success with turkeys and geese and
fowls.
Some time after Lou’s marriage, Mrs. Witt reappeared in
London, from the country, with Phoenix in tow, and a couple
of horses. She had decided that she would ride in the Park in
the morning, and see the world that way. Phoenix was to be
her groom.
So, to the great misgiving of Rico, behold Mrs. Witt in
splendidly tailored habit and perfect boots, a smart black hat
on her smart grey hair, riding a grey gelding as smart as she
was, and looking down her conceited, inquisitive, scornful,
aristocratic-democratic Louisiana nose at the people in Piccadilly, as she crossed to the Row, followed by the taciturn shadow of Phoenix, who sat on a chestnut with three white feet as
if he had grown there.
Mrs. Witt, like many other people, always expected to fi nd
the real beau monde and the real grand monde somewhere or
other. She didn’t quite give in to what she saw in the Bois de
Boulogne, or in Monte Carlo, or on the Pincio: all a bit shoddy,
and not very beau and not at all grand. There she was, with
her grey eagle eye, her splendid complexion and her weaponlike health of a woman of fi fty, dropping her eyelids a little,
very slightly nervous, but completely prepared to despise the
monde she was entering in Rotten Row.
In she sailed, and up and down that regatta-canal of horsemen and horsewomen under the trees of the Park. And yes,
there were lovely girls with fair hair down their backs, on happy ponies. And awfully well-groomed papas, arid tight mamas
who looked as if they were going to pour tea between the ears
12
ST. MAWR
of their horses, and converse with banal skill, one eye on the
teapot, one on the visitor with whom she was talking, and all
the rest of her hostess’s argus eyes upon everybody in sight.
That alert argus capability of the English matron was startling and a bit horrifying. Mrs. Witt would at once think of the
old negro mammies, away in Louisiana. And her eyes became
dagger-like as she watched the clipped, shorn, mincing young
Englishmen. She refused to look at the prosperous Jews.
It was still the days before motor-cars were allowed in
the Park, but Rico and Lou, sliding round Hyde Park Corner
and up Park Lane in their car, would watch the steely horsewoman and the saturnine groom with a sort of dismay. Mrs.
Witt seemed to be pointing a pistol at the bosom of every other
horseman or horsewoman and announcing: “Your virility or
your life! Your femininity or your life!” She didn’t know herself what she really wanted them to be: but it was something
as democratic as Abraham Lincoln and as aristocratic as a Russian czar, as highbrow as Arthur Balfour, and as taciturn and
unideal as Phoenix. Everything at once.
There was nothing for it: Lou had to buy herself a horse
and ride at her mother’s side, for very decency’s sake. Mrs. Witt
was so like a smooth, levelled, gunmetal pistol, Lou had to be
a sort of sheath. And she really looked pretty, with her clusters
of dark, curly, New Orleans hair, like grapes, and her quaint
brown eyes that didn’t quite match, and that looked a bit
sleepy and vague, and at the same time quick as a squirrel’s.
She was slight and elegant, and a tiny bit rakish, and somebody
suggested she might be on the movies.
13
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
Nevertheless, they were in the society columns next morning – two new and striking fi gures in the Row this morning
were Lady Henry Carrington and her mother, Mrs. Witt, etc.
And Mrs. Witt liked it, let her say what she might. So did Lou.
Lou liked it immensely. She simply luxuriated in the sun of
publicity.
“Rico dear, you must get a horse.”
The tone was soft and southern and drawling, but the overtone had a decisive fi nality. In vain Rico squirmed – he had
a way of writhing and squirming which perhaps he had caught
at Oxford. In vain he protested that he couldn’t ride, and that
he didn’t care for riding. He got quite angry, and his handsome
arched nose tilted and his upper lip lifted from his teeth, like
a dog that is going to bite. Yet daren’t quite bite.
And that was Rico. He daren’t quite bite. Not that he was
really afraid of the others. He was afraid of himself, once he
let himself go. He might rip up in an eruption of life-long anger all this pretty-pretty picture of a charming young wife and
a delightful little home and a fascinating success as a painter
of fashionable, and at the same time ‘great’ portraits: with colour, wonderful colour, and at the same time, form, marvellous
form. He had composed this little tableau vivant with great
effort. He didn’t want to erupt like some suddenly wicked
horse – Rico was really more like a horse than a dog, a horse
that might go nasty any moment. For the time, he was good,
very good, dangerously good.
“Why, Rico dear, I thought you used to ride so much, in
Australia, when you were young? Didn’t you tell me all about
14
ST. MAWR
it, hm?” – and as she ended on that slow, singing hm?, which
acted on him like an irritant and a drug, he knew he was beaten.
Lou kept the sorrel mare in a mews just behind the house
in Westminster, and she was always slipping round to the
stables. She had a funny little nostalgia for the place: something that really surprised her. She had never had the faintest notion that she cared for horses and stables and grooms.
But she did. She was fascinated. Perhaps it was her childhood’s
Texas associations come back. Whatever it was, her life with
Rico in the elegant little house, and all her social engagements
seemed like a dream, the substantial reality of which was those
mews in Westminster, her sorrel mare, the owner of the mews,
Mr. Saintsbury, and the grooms he employed. Mr. Saintsbury
was a horsey, elderly man like an old maid, and he loved the
sound of titles.
“Lady Carrington! – well I never! You’ve come to us for
a bit of company again, I see. I don’t know whatever we shall
do if you go away, we shall be that lonely!” and he fl ashed his
old-maid’s smile at her. “No matter how grey the morning,
your ladyship would make a beam of sunshine. Poppy is all
right, I think ... “
Poppy was the sorrel mare with the no white feet and the
startled eye, and she was all right. And Mr. Saintsbury was
smiling with his old-maid’s mouth, and showing all his teeth.
“Come across with me, Lady Carrington, and look at a new
horse just up from the country. I think he’s worth a look, and
I believe you have a moment to spare, your Ladyship.”
15
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
Her Ladyship had too many moments to spare. She followed the sprightly, elderly, clean-shaven man across the yard
to a loose-box, and waited while he opened the door.
In the inner dark she saw a handsome bay horse with his
clean ears pricked like daggers from his naked head as he
swung handsomely round to stare at the open doorway. He
had big, black, brilliant eyes, with a sharp questioning glint,
and that air of tense, alert quietness which betrays an animal
that can be dangerous.
“Is he quiet?” Lou asked.
“Why – yes – my Lady! He’s quiet, with those that know
how to handle him. Cup! my boy! Cup, my beauty! Cup then!
St. Mawr!”
Loquacious even with the animals, he went softly forward
and laid his hand on the horse’s shoulder, soft and quiet as
a fl y settling. Lou saw the brilliant skin of the horse crinkle
a little in apprehensive anticipation, like the shadow of the
descending hand on a bright red-gold liquid. But then the animal relaxed again.
“Quiet with those that know how to handle him, and a bit
of a ruffi an with those that don’t. Isn’t that the ticket, eh, St.
Mawr?”
“What is his name?” Lou asked.
The man repeated it, with a slight Welsh twist – “He’s
from the Welsh borders, belonging to a Welsh gentleman, Mr.
Griffi th Edwards. But they’re wanting to sell him.”
“How old is he?” asked Lou.
16
ST. MAWR
“About seven years – seven years and fi ve months,” said
Mr. Saintsbury, dropping his voice as if it were a secret. “Could
one ride him in the Park?”
“Well – yes! I should say a gentleman who knew how to
handle him could ride him very well and make a very handsome fi gure in the Park.”
Lou at once decided that this handsome fi gure should be
Rico’s. For she was already half in love with St. Mawr. He was of
such a lovely red-gold colour, and a dark, invisible fi re seemed
to come out of him. But in his big black eyes there was a lurking afterthought. Something told her that the horse was not
quite happy: that somewhere deep in his animal consciousness
lived a dangerous, half-revealed resentment, a diffused sense
of hostility. She realised that he was sensitive, in spite of his
fl aming, healthy strength, and nervous with a touchy uneasiness that might make him vindictive.
“Has he got any tricks?” she asked.
“Not that I know of, my Lady: not tricks exactly. But he’s
one of these temperamental creatures, as they say. Though
I say, every horse is temperamental, when you come down to
it. But this one, it is as if he was a trifl e raw somewhere. Touch
this raw spot, and there’s no answering for him.”
“Where is he raw?” asked Lou, somewhat mystifi ed. She
thought he might really have some physical sore.
“Why, that’s hard to say, my Lady. If he was a human being, you’d say something had gone wrong in his life. But with
a horse it’s not that, exactly. A high-bred animal like St. Mawr
needs understanding, and I don’t know as anybody has quite
got the hang of him. I confess I haven’t myself. But I do realise
17
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
that he is a special animal and needs a special sort of touch, and
I’m willing he should have it, did I but know exactly what it is.”
She looked at the glowing bay horse that stood there with
his ears back, his face averted, but attending as if he were some
lightning-conductor. He was a stallion. When she realised
this, she became more afraid of him.
“Why does Mr. Griffi th Edwards want to sell him?” she
asked.
“Well – my Lady – they raised him for stud purposes – but
he didn’t answer. There are horses like that: don’t seem to fancy the mares for some reason. Well, anyway, they couldn’t keep
him for the stud. And as you see, he’s a powerful, beautiful
hackney, clean as a whistle, and eaten up with his own power.
But there’s no putting him between the shafts. He won’t stand
it. He’s a fi ne saddle-horse, beautiful action, and lovely to ride.
But he’s got to be handled, and there you are.”
Lou felt there was something behind the man’s reticence.
“Has he ever made a break?” she asked, apprehensive.
“Made a break?” replied the man. “Well, if I must admit it,
he’s had two accidents. Mr. Griffi th Edwards’s son rode him
a bit wild, away there in the Forest of Dean, and the young
fellow had his skull smashed in against a low oak bough. Last
autumn, that was. And some time back, he crushed a groom
against the side of the stall – injured him fatally. But they were
both accidents, my Lady. Things will happen.”
The man spoke in a melancholy, fatalistic way. The horse,
with his ears laid back, seemed to be listening tensely, his face
averted. He looked like something fi nely bred and passionate
that has been judged and condemned.
18
ST. MAWR
“May I say how do you do?” she said to the horse, drawing a little nearer in her white, summery dress and lifting her
hand that glittered with emeralds and diamonds.
He drifted away from her, as if some wind blew him. Then
he ducked his head and looked sideway at her from his black,
full eye.
“I think I’m all right,” she said, edging nearer, while he
watched her.
She laid her hand on his side and gently stroked him. Then
she stroked his shoulder, and then the hard, tense arch of his
neck. And she was startled to feel the vivid heat of his life come
through to her, through the lacquer of red-gold gloss. So slippery with vivid, hot life!
She paused, as if thinking, while her hand rested on the
horse’s sun-arched neck. Dimly, in her weary young woman’s
soul, an ancient understanding seemed to fl ood in. She wanted
to buy St. Mawr.
“I think,” she said to Saintsbury, “if I can, I will buy him.”
The man looked at her long and shrewdly.
“Well, my Lady,” he said at last, “there shall be nothing
kept from you. But what would your Ladyship do with him, if
I may make so bold?”
“I don’t know,” she replied vaguely. “I might take him to
America.”
The man paused once more, then said:
“They say it’s been the making of some horses, to take them
over the water, to Australia or such places. It might repay
you – you never know.”
19
DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE
She wanted to buy St. Mawr. She wanted him to belong to
her. For some reason the sight of him, his power, his alive, alert
intensity, his unyieldingness, made her want to cry.
She never did cry: except sometimes with vexation, or to
get her own way. As far as weeping went, her heart felt as dry
as a Christmas walnut. What was the good of tears, anyhow?
You had to keep on holding on in this life, never give way, and
never give in. Tears only left one weakened and ragged.
But now, as if that mysterious fi re of the horse’s body had
split some rock in her, she went home and hid herself in her
room, and just cried. The wild, brilliant, alert head of St. Mawr
seemed to look at her out of another world. It was as if she had
had a vision, as if the walls of her Awn world had suddenly
melted away, leaving her in a great darkness, in the midst of
which the large, brilliant eyes of that horse looked at her with
demonish question, while his naked ears stood up like daggers
from the naked lines of his inhuman head, and his great body
glowed red with power.
What was it? Almost like a god looking at her terribly out of
the everlasting dark, she had felt the eyes of that horse; great,
glowing, fearsome eyes, arched with a question and containing
a white blade of light like a threat. What was his non-human
question, and his uncanny threat? She didn’t know. He was
some splendid demon, and she must worship him.
She hid herself away from Rico. She could not bear the triviality and superfi ciality of her human relationships. Looming
like some god out of the darkness was the head of that horse,
with the wide, terrible, questioning eyes. And she felt that it
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